Passive Aggressive
by donutsandcoffee
Summary: Hetalia/Inception. It was 6 months after the Fischer Job - after inception - when the team took the Jones Job, and 8 months when they took the Braginski Job. Arthur thinks this is one hell of a job. Slight Arthur x Eames, Russia x America
1. The New Tourist

**Passive Aggressive **

**Author: **donutsandcoffee

**Word Count: **3,010

**Fandom: **axis powers hetalia, inception

**Pairing(s): **russia/america. eames/arthur. obligatory dom/mal and little hints of various canon-ish hetalia pairings (usuk, etc)

**Summary: **It was 6 months after the Fischer Job when the team took the Jones Job, and 8 months when they took the Braginski Job.

**Warnings: **completely biased to badass!Arthur and badass!Alfred

**Disclaimer: **Axis Powers Hetalia is Hidekaz Himaruya's and Inception is Christopher Nolan's

**-X-**

**a/n: THIS STORY HAS JUST UNDERGONE A REWRITE. **details of this is at the end of this chapter

blanket post for this fic: while it won't be history-heavy per se, this fic will contain historical jargons and concepts, as I'm trying to based it on them. I'm an a level history student with syllabus focusing on cold war history, so most of my knowledge is from that. **historical concepts/jargons, if any, will always be explained at the end of the chapter. **these explanations will be short (or as short as possible) and definitely the abridged versions. you can always pm me for details or do your own research with wiki, google, or the library

/this/ means there's a strikethrough, because doesn't support that formatting

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**-X-**

**One**

**The New Tourist (who gives some troubles and surprises—mostly, troubles)**

**-X-**

**THE NEW YORK TIMES  
MONDAY, 13 MARCH 2032  
FRONT PAGE**

**REPORTED ARREST**

Los Angeles, 12 March – Well-stuffed wallet, working-class suits and three credit cards. This is the portrait of your everyday Americans, a man that can walk past you without being given a second glance, and yet it is also, horrifyingly, the exact description of a Russian spy arrested in the neighborhood on 12 March, noon.

The arrest marks the twelfth public arrest of Russian spies this year. It has been suspected that there have also been multiple discreet arrests throughout the country.

The arrest had been made public as the man answered his doorbell in his apartment in Bay Area and shot dead two American intelligence agents along with the informer, who had been living in a room beside the man. There were at least five reported gunshots and the man was arrested two hours after the incident.

According to a spokesperson, the man speaks fluent English without a trace of Russian accent. So far his identity is still unknown.

RELATED STORY PAGE 5.

**-X-**

**2032**

**March**

**1.**

Disasters come and go in one's life, and Arthur's is not an exception. Just like any other disasters too, Arthur's didn't only involve him and him alone; in fact, it involved quite a lot of people, including but not limited to the Dream Team—the name suggested by Eames to refer to those who took part in the Fischer Job, a name Arthur scoffed condescendingly at but, much to his horror, unanimously became their official name.

Of course, just like any other things, Arthur has his own definition of disaster. When talking about disaster, people think of calamitous events—a catastrophe that causes a great loss of lives, a hardship, a business failure.

Arthur thinks of _one hell of a job._

_._

**2.**

This is the story of that one hell of a job.

(Which involved complicated politic between nations, questionable existence of atomic bombs, the existence of beings one would never imagine existing, and two particular teenagers—a blond, bespectacled American and a silver-haired Russian.

Mostly, it's about the teenagers.)

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**3.**

It all started with a letter.

Actually, it started with _another _letter, in Eames' opinion, but Arthur begged to differ. It started with _this_ letter, which came first long before the other letter that Eames was referring to. Ariadne disagreed with both of them, but Arthur's mind had already been made.

The letter was nothing special, really; it was as normal as a letter could be, albeit slightly crumpled and had a stain on one of its edges that Arthur suspected to be coffee stain. Anyone would have considered it harmless from any point of view, maybe an epistolary attempt by an old friend to catch up.

Except that Arthur's apartment never received a letter. _Ever._

It had just been six months after the Fischer Job, and Arthur was still lying low, not daring to risk any chances being traced. In fact, he'd made some extra precautions this time, covering his tracks more meticulously than usual and returned back to his house—his real one—that he hadn't visited in years. Arthur doubted that even _Dom_ knew where he was staying; hell, he even doubted that this house even _had_ an address. And yet, there it was: the letter, lying innocently on his front porch, more suspicious than ever.

Arthur eyed the letter suspiciously before picking it up cautiously. He double-checked the letter, making sure there was no hidden device in or around it, then flipped it to see the sender.

_**Alfred F. Jones**_

_**O-11**_

_**General**_

_**Commissioned Officer**_

_**United States Marine Corps**_

The words were handwritten with black ink, and the handwriting was, for a lack of better words, _odd_. It was slanted and extremely old-fashioned, reminding him too much of his late grandfather's, the letters leaning onto one another like dancing to a silent melody.

What surprised him more, though, was the marine code Jones used to identify himself. _O-11. _Arthur may have been years away from his military days, but his memory was still bright and clear: army codes ended with _O-10. _He was quite sure with that. Highest rank, general, marine code, O-10. There _shouldn't_ be an O-11.

Arthur ran a finger through his hair and walked back to his living room. This Alfred F. Jones—_what's with the F, anyways?_—was either an uninformed idiot, or a very influential person behind the scene. Arthur wanted to believe the former, but the US Government seal on the letter screamed the latter, and before he knew it, he opened it.

He soon regretted it.

The letter was like written by a literary-challenged teen; it was littered with grammatically wrong sentences, unnecessary abbreviations (such as 'u' instead of 'you'), and what he believed teenagers nowadays dubbed as 'chatspeak'. He resisted the urge to tear the letter into pieces (or worse, correcting every single mistake and sending it back) and started, painfully, reading.

_Hi Arthur!_

_Al's here. Heard 'bout the awesome stuffs you and ur team did to /__Fiscehr/ __Fischer, inception rite? It seems u guys r srsly the best in this job. So…fancy for a job? If interested (which u def. should), just go to my place at the 25__th__. My adress is at the back of this paper._

_P.s: I sent ur boss and previous teammates the same letter, so dun worry bout telling them._

_P.p.s: u have a /__sexy./__ good name /__like someone I know__./_

_/Sincrely/__Sincerely,_

_Alfred F. Jones._

The letter was so abusive to the rule of English language that it made his eyes hurt. He couldn't believe he was saying this, but this Jones was _worse than Eames_.

But the rule of English language was barely a concern as he started to take in Jones' words. His heart started to pound against his ribcage. _He knows._ And by the sound of the letter, Arthur was not the only one having this revelation.

As if on cue, his phone rang.

Arthur picked it up.

"Eames."

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**-X-**

**2032  
March, April**

**3.**

In Dominic Cobb's opinion, it never started with letters.

It didn't start when the letter arrived in his mail, because that day James puked on the pile of letters piled up on the kitchen's floor, and they subsequently got thrown out. It didn't start when Arthur told him about it, either, because like other things, he thought Saito could handle this one.

It started _right now_, when he was standing in front of the brown mahogany door and squinting at the name written on a bronze plate on the door. _He knew_ it started right now because he suddenly realized that there was no running away from this, and all he could think was: _oh shit._

The letters forming _Alfred F. Jones_ seemed to smile back at him amusedly.

He finally knocked on the door: once, twice.

"Come in!" A cheerful voice called from the inside, and Dom did as he was told.

If Dom wasn't very self-conscious, he would've gaped.

Jones was sitting behind the only desk in the room, and he looked_ so very young. _Arthur had warned him that Jones was a nineteen-year old, a _teenager_, but he never expected him to look so young, so _innocent_. He looked _seventeen_, really.

Dom approached the desk cautiously. It was obvious that Jones was relaxed; he had his feet on the desk, his hands crossed on his lap and his lips formed a playful smile. His eyes were bright blue behind the glasses, like the sky, and there was a certain edge in them that Cobb couldn't put his fingers on.

He didn't know if he should feel intimidated or being played at.

"Alfred F. Jones," he tried, clarifying. Maybe Jones went to the toilet, and this boy was the son of Jones, and he was here to visit his old man and—

"That's me!" the blonde replied, still cheerfully, disproving's ridiculous theory. "And I assume you're Dominic Cobb."

Dom nodded. "Yes I am. And Mr. Jones, if you know so much about me, you should've known that I am no longer in the business—"

"Call me Alfred," Jones—_Alfred_—interrupted, "And let's cut to the chase. No formal bullshits. I know you quit. I know you're now a college professor teaching architecture, send your kids to their school every morning and never touch a PASIV device in months. And no, I am not going to use this information—nor your kids—to blackmail you or something. You're Americans, after all."

Dom opened his mouth to retort, but Alfred continued, "but I need your help. I know you were, and still _are_, the best extractor in the dream-sharing community. I need you to do a job for me, and this job is not simple: I need you to perform an extraction and—if the situation calls for—an inception."

Dom silently bit his lower lip, thinking. Alfred was now looking directly into his eyes and Dom felt he had to correct himself: Alfred did not look seventeen. There was something in the blue eyes, something that spoke of years of experience and hardships and knowledge, and Alfred suddenly looked older by hundreds of years, literally.

He didn't ask, _have you ever fallen into limbo before? _He asked, "have you used a PASIV device before?"

Alfred nodded. "I'm familiar with it," he said vaguely, "and in case you're wondering, I'm experienced enough to follow you in this job."

Dom frowned. "There's no room for tourist in this job."

Ignoring the comment, Alfred beamed, "does this mean you're taking it?"

The ex-extractor cursed himself for making such a slip-up. "Maybe," he decided, "you may not understand, Mr. Jones—" Alfred made a face at the name, and Dom corrected himself, "_Alfred_… but I don't know if this job worth risking my life and my children's future. How important is this job exactly? Why… why must you, the person behind the scene, as they say, be the one meeting me in person?"

Dom could see Alfred fidgeted at the question, his confidence seeping away. "Because I have to make sure you're convinced to take the job," he said in a soft voice, "because… if we fail… there might be another World War coming."

At that, Alfred looked away. Dom wanted to say Alfred was lying, wanted to _believe_ Alfred was lying; but he was always good at judging characters, and he could see that Alfred wasn't lying.

He gulped.

"I—I might take it," he finally said, and Alfred looked up and started smiling again, "but under one condition." Dom thought of Saito, hands desperately clutching his chest, shirt red soaked by blood. "No one is following us. Not you. Not anyone else. No tourists. We simply cannot afford this."

The teen looked devastated. "Then we're not having a deal."

"Fine by me."

Alfred pouted. Dom squinted at him.

Alfred pouted more.

Dom sighed. "One try," he said, "I give you one try in a dreamscape to prove yourself that you are, indeed, a capable tourist. One attempt—you're free to do anything you want, I can even lend you the PASIV. But that's all you get—one try. You fail, the deal's off."

To Dom's surprise, Alfred did not look nervous at all. On the contrary, there was a spark in his blue eyes that had not been there minutes ago.

"Thanks a lot Mr. Cobb! Hey, how about this—I'll give you something totally cool. I'll give you one—exactly one—_sentence_. I'll give you one sentence, one that will surely impress you. And then we're off for vacation."

Dom didn't say a word. He looked into Alfred's blue eyes, searching for anxiety, for fear, for anything. He found none.

And then, Alfred smiled.

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**2.**

Arthur met a dead end.

Before you could understand the gravity of this situation, it must first be known that Arthur is a professional. He is one of the best—if not _the _best—in his line of job, able to extract detailed information of almost everyone, from something as simple as their bank accounts down to little details like their family background some generations back, finding it as easily as taking a stroll in the park. He was also hard working, meticulous and dedicated, all in all the quintessence of a point man every extractor wished to have. Word of mouth was that he's omnipotent in collecting information, having a success rate of not less than 98%—which was saying something, considering the people and the security he was up against—and so far, no one could disprove this.

But apparently, contrary to all the facts, Arthur met a dead end now.

Alfred F. Jones was a very peculiar case. Arthur had searched, searched and _searched_, questioning all his contacts and breaking into dozens of databases, but nothing—absolutely _nothing_—came out.

Okay, maybe a photo of him, sure. But no birth certificate, no graduation certificates, no companies he'd ever worked in and childhood friends to spill some past secrets—_nothing_. It was as if Jones was suddenly materialized out of thin air in Los Angeles at some point in time in the past, 19-year-old and bespectacled and all that, unchanging and not aging.

Arthur scoffed at his own thought. _As if_. He tried calling another one of his sources.

At the end of the week, Jones' file was empty; the crisp orange file contained nothing except the words "Alfred F. Jones" emblazoned neatly on the cover and a 4x6 photo of the 19-year-old Jones, with bright blue eyes and a smile smugger than even Eames'.

"Dom," Arthur called that night, defeated, "I think I need your help."

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**1.**

"I said I don't fucking now, Eames, would you please just shut up?!"

From the other end of the line, he could hear Eames curse. Arthur, for once, shared the other's sentiment, knowing that they were both on the same boat now. The same boat that was going to encounter a hurricane and capsize.

"Arthur, darling," Eames tried, "I was just trying to say that I do not expect to be tracked down so easily like this."

Arthur pursed his lip. "This is how it works with the dream community, Eames, you know that—we get tracked down by everyone all the time."

"Not this time, pet," the Brit replied, "not this time."

Arthur couldn't find a word to disagree. Saito was a very influential man—they never expected anyone could know even if they announced the Fischer Job on the TV.

"Shit," was all he could say.

He could hear Eames smile sadly on the other end. "My point exactly. Though—how is Cobb?"

_Dom_, Arthur realized. Dom had surely got the letter too.

He mentally cursed again—he didn't want Dom to be pulled back into the dreamshare community, where they had to keep breaking laws and cheating and running. Dom couldn't afford this, not when he could have a steady job in a university, teaching architecture and having two children to come home to.

"I'll try to see what I can find about this Alfred Jones," he told Eames as he sauntered to his room, taking numerous notebooks filled with his contact details with his free hand, "try to hear some words about him there, too. We will contact Dom only if necessary," and his words were final.

And Eames knew that too, because he didn't retort and simply said, "if that's what you want," then hung up. Arthur threw his cell-phone to the table and turned on his computer.

Time to work.

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**4.**

"Mr. Dominic Cobb," Alfred said, "do you remember how you got here?"

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**5.**

When you are dealing with something as dangerous as dreamsharing, a tiny bit of uncertainties can get you killed. You can't be unsure of your mark's preference, or else he would suspect. You can't be unsure of the time you have left, or you can be caught sleeping helplessly by your fully-awake, your life depended on how trigger-happy he was.

But most important of all, you can't be unsure of _how you get to where you are now, _because that is the fastest way to know whether you're dreaming or not, and right at the time Dom was—

Realization dawned on him.

"_God_," he breathed out, shocked, _amazed_, "we're in a dream."

Alfred clapped. "You can say that," he grinned, holding out his hand, "or you can say we're in the warehouse where you'll be working for me for the next few months. Nice knowing you, Mr. Cobb."

He knew he should've felt threatened or, at least, alarmed, but all he could feel now was awe. Dom may have been away from the business for months, but he still knew how to appreciate a talent; even after he realized it was a dream, everything around him didn't have a surreal feeling to it—everything in the room felt _real_. None of Dom's projections had broken into the room either, and his was _militarized_.

Dom couldn't help smiling slightly. "I believe I have no choice."

He took Alfred's hand and shook it.

Arthur was _so_ going to kill him.

**-X-**

**2020  
December**

**2.**

"You do understand the gravity of this situation, _da_?"

He stopped in his track and turned slightly to face the silver-haired man. The man was smiling, but there was no hint of amusement in his eyes at all.

"I'm not stupid, Iv—_Russia_," he emphasized on the last word, and he could see Ivan's—_Russia's—_expression got darker. He flicked his gaze away, a desperate attempt to ignore it. "I know very well what I'm doing now."

Russia's smile became wider, _colder_, and he shuddered. "So I'm Russia now, _Amerika_?" He stepped closer, "If that's how you want it to be then. Two can play this game."

America kept his gaze trained on the imaginary spot on Russia's shoulder.

"But in case you didn't understand—you were trying to think with that inferior brain of yours, after all—I'm going to break it down to you," he stated calmly, gaze fixed on the blond. "Once you are walking out of the door, there is no turning back. It's final."

America balled his fist even harder, his nails digging into his palm.

He turned away.

"I'm sorry, Ivan," he whispered, and he felt his heart shatter into pieces.

And then, he walked out.

**-X-**

**2032  
June**

**5.**

Two months after Alfred F. Jones' letter arrived on Arthur's front door, eight months after the Fischer Job and the successful inception, Ivan Braginski's letter arrived.

To Eames, this is when it all started.

**-X-**

**.**

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**a/n: **FINALLY I GOT THIS OUT OF MY SYSTEM.

I've been wanting to update my other stories, but after falling quite deep into the inception fandom, I can't write anything else but this thing. now that I've finished this first chapter, I can finally write something else.

anyways, how was it?

I haven't read any hetalia-inception crossover _at all_ (fusion not counted), and I'm quite surprised. surely the whole extraction-corporate espionage-politics-countries-hetalia! concept would come to someone's mind? but no one apparently writes it, so here I am, with my own. hopefully nothing confusing as of now, because like anything inception related, this story is going to be filled with plot-twists, dream levels and theories. which are generally confusing.

of course, you can tell me how is this—is this any good? boring? is everyone in character? any suggestions? preferences? requests? ideas? tell me!

the plot will really get going in the next chapter, so stay tuned! :)

reviews, favorites and alerts encourage me to write. especially reviews. :D

**eta; reason for rewrite: **I started writing this purely to fill the void in the fandoms that is a hetalia x inception crossover, but the overwhelmingly positive feedback this story's getting (I was told that someone even_ recced_ it, damn it) has reached the point that this story deserves something much better than the half-assed writing I've been producing. also I've realized some glaring differences/inconsistencies between what I've written and what I've planned and I'm fixing it before it's too late.

edit including some corrections pointed by reviewers (thank you **siameze**), additional and rewritten lines to fit the planned plot, changes in uses of last names to first names whenever appropriate.


	2. The Team

**Passive Aggressive**

**Words Count: **3,389

**a/n: thank you for all the wonderful reviews**! thank you to **iscreamdrizzle** for defending me against a troll-reviewer. in case you're wondering, the thing between me and that reviewer has been settled :)

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**-X-**

**Two  
The Team (who slowly warms up to the new tourist and gets another letter)**

**-X-**

**U.S NEWS AND WORLD REPORT  
INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT  
INTERVIEWED BY RITA BRINKLEY**

[INTERVIEW SUBJECT: WILLIAM REEVES, US ADVISOR AND DEPUTY HEAD OF US MISSION IN MOSCOW

INTERVIEW TOPIC: US' GROWING TENSION WITH THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

DATE: 31/07/2030

TIME: 08.26 PM]

**START OF PAGE 5**

BRINKLEY: So—correct me if I'm mistaken—you're saying that history repeats itself.

REEVES**: **Yes, _yes_—that's very aptly put. Around eighty years ago, [then US Advisor George] Kennan sent the 'Long Telegram' and 'Sources of Soviet Conduct', trying to explain about USSR's hostile actions towards US and ended up creating skepticism and paranoia among the US citizens, ushering us into the Cold War. Now here I am, eighty years since that fateful day, a man with the same occupation with Kennan, and just a week ago sent the equivalent of the Long Telegram—the Expansionist Theory. So what am I saying? What I'm saying is, if the history repeats itself, we're heading towards one inevitable event.

BRINKLEY: …towards… Cold War II?

REEVES: Yes, Cold War II. World War I is followed by World War II almost naturally; it's only about time before Cold War II comes.

BRINKLEY: A lot of historians have claimed that it's simply not possible. Is there anything you want to say to convince them otherwise?

REEVES: Well, why is it _not _possible? Russia has been rising in power. With India's economy oddly stagnating and The Great Earthquake of 2012 devastating China, Russia is left without any competition. It has been growing—its economy, military, everything—and it has been reported that the government has been moving back towards its root: communism.

BRINKLEY: It's been widely accepted that Cold War actually broke out due to misconceptions instead of Russia's expansionistic tendency.

REEVES: _That_, Ms. Brinkley, is what I believe the world is getting wrong. Kennan was right. There really was, and is, a Grand Design by Russia's government. The Soviet Union, now Russia, _does_ want to take over the world! America _is_ facing a threat!

BRINKLEY: In the light of this, what is your strategy so far?

**END OF PAGE 5**

**-X-**

**2032  
June**

**0.**

Gathering the team was easier than expected.

Dom was never in the hiding, Eames was always under Arthur's radar for various reasons (_impersonal, _most-definitely-_professional_ reasons, Arthur would always emphasize), Yusuf was still running his dream den in Mombasa and Ariadne had just graduated and thus still stayed in Paris—not to mention she now joined the ever-growing Europe community of dream-sharing (the same one who cultivated and now respected Eames, a fact that made Eames' recommendation of her became priceless).

In less than a week, they had stood inside the warehouse, forming a jagged half-circle, with Dominic Cobb smiling apologetically and Alfred F. Jones beaming innocently in front of all of them.

**7.**

"Who are you?"

America looked up from the design of the first level of the dream, and his eyes met Arthur's curious one. America wanted to smile at this—Arthur's gaze was definitely as much curious as it was suspecting, and America started to understand the reason why this man held so much potential at such a young age.

But Arthur was a professional before anything else, and everything between them could stay professional; so America decided to play around, smiling a tad too mischievously and answered.

"A man with secrets."

**1.**

Arthur couldn't believe what he'd just heard from Dom.

"Dom," was all he said through gritted teeth. He thought he'd made it clear—no more jobs. Not for Dom. It was too risky—for the children, for Miles, for Dom himself. Of course, the possibility of this happening had crossed Arthur's mind once (or twice, or more), but Arthur had decided to shrug it off. Dominic Cobb was a man of responsibility, and knowing the older man's over-protectiveness over his children, he thought Dom would've turned down the job.

Arthur thought wrong.

They were now in a warehouse that was twice as large as the ones Arthur usually chose, and the fact that it was in the middle of a military complex—a place Arthur thought he would never visit anymore in his life—only made him even more uncomfortable. The only reason he hadn't screamed his thoughts to Dom's face was the fact that Alfred F. Jones was grinning like a five-year-old from the door.

Ah, yes, Alfred F. Jones.

Arthur always considered his life as two separate sides: the personal side, where all his emotions and opinions were safely tucked inside, and the working side, where his meticulousness and research skills were put into good use. While Eames was the bane of Arthur's personal side's existence, Alfred F. Jones was certainly the latter's.

Jones—the teen had asked him to call him 'Alfred', but Arthur refused such familiarity in such a short time—was an enigma. He was a peculiarity, an anomaly. Arthur found it ridiculous that he'd spent days and nights looking for information about him and only ended up questioning the boy's very _existence_, and now—_wham!_ He appeared beside Dom, smiling innocently and announcing the worst news in Arthur's life so far.

It didn't help that Dom's entire defense was a weak, _ridiculous_, "well, he's talented."

(Arthur tried to forget that it was the same defense Dom used for Arthur himself a decade ago when everyone in the dreamshare questioned Dom's choice for a point man.)

The worst thing, though, had to be the fact that Alfred's smile practically announced that he'd known all these facts about Arthur.

This Alfred F. Jones had secrets, and Arthur didn't like to be reminded that there were still things he didn't know.

**7.**

"Who are _you_?"

America's smile wavered at the question, but seeing Ariadne's eyes still crinkling with laughter, he decided to push it, "what do you mean?"

Ariadne took a sip from her drink before answering. "You, Al, _you_. You and _your stories_," she giggled, cheeks flushed red from too much laughing, earning some stares from the people in the restaurant, "And I thought Eames' stories were creative. Seriously, _who are you_?"

Inwardly, America released a relieved sigh. Really, he had been excessively paranoid these days; it was only about time before this Russia-induced paranoia started to ruin his social life. America leaned back on the back of his chair, his right hand slumped lazily on its backrest. He grinned.

"Just a story teller."

**2.**

Alfred F. Jones, Arthur realized, was a _talkative_ man.

Jones did not give out words, one at a time; he vomited them, all ten words in a second, and Arthur developed a habit of listening to music while working nowadays. Nothing calmed him more than Edith Pilaf's serene voice, though he secretly liked those Lady Gaga's songs Ariadne recommended to him more. (In his defense, Arthur drew the line on Rebecca Black.)

But when Arthur really _had_ to listen to Jones, he was always surprised; Jones spoke in the _weirdest_ accent Arthur had ever heard.

That was saying something since Arthur went around the world on a regular basis. Not that Jones had a _foreign_ accent, per se. Foreign, he could do some research. No. Jones spoke in a blend of many different American accents, switching between Boston to South to New York in one sentence. It couldn't have been normal, and Arthur at first thought that Jones only tried to irritate him; but after two weeks, it was too consistent to be fake.

Arthur didn't care that Ariadne found it sexy. Neither did he care that Eames _didn't_ find it sexy, though after knowing that, he found himself oddly at peace.

And speaking of Jones' voice, there were the _stories._

Sometimes, Jones' stories were just regular anecdotes, peppered with dramatic details and all. This, Arthur didn't really mind. But sometimes, Jones' stories would seem out of place, like recollections of things that could've only happened decades ago when none of them were born yet, and Alfred would tell these stories vividly with such ease as if he himself experienced all of it. _As if_.

Arthur didn't know which he hated most: the stories, or the fact that he almost believed them.

**7.**

_Who are you?_

Yusuf definitely didn't say that out loud, but he may as well so, because America could hear the questions from million light years away by looking at the chemist's expression. They were at a bar that they frequented lately, a somewhat relaxation period before the actual job commenced. America could feel Yusuf's eyes detailing his every moves, and others started to feel it, too, because now Arthur shared meaningful glances to Eames and Ariadne started talking about nonsense. The atmosphere became tense.

But America was never good at reading atmosphere. America specialized in ignorance, so he grinned widely instead, offering the man another glass of beer and Yusuf, after a moment of silence, accepted the offer. The question was never brought up again in a long time.

**3.**

Alfred F. Jones talked about the job in great details.

"I need you all to perform an extraction first," he announced on the second day, after everyone had gathered, "find out an inside information of whether the Russian Federation had access to the any types of weapons of mass destruction. Here's the twist: if they don't, we're done. That's it. We pack up, your paycheck rolls. But if they do… I want you to perform an inception. Incept him, make him think that they should destroy those weapons for good. Any questions, just ask me anytime."

Alfred F. Jones also talked about his dreams in great details.

"One day I want to build a giant robot to protect America from the bad guys, you know? The terrorists will definitely be scared of a giant metal robot flying over the country. And the robot would have a cape and—wow, don't you think it's so good? Can we have robots in the first level? Maybe not a giant one, but it has to have a long, gold cape—"

However, Alfred F. Jones only talked about the Mark once.

"Ivan Braginski," Alfred said shortly, handing Arthur a file filled with a list of Braginski's contacts, personal details and history.

"Wait, you're not going to tell me anything about him at all?"

"And who is he, anyways?" Ariadne piped in, looking from Arthur's shoulder to see the contents of the file, "is he so influential that if we incept him to destroy the weapons, the entire nation would do so? And if he is, why have I never heard of him before?"

"You've never heard of me before, either," Alfred replied tonelessly, and though he was smiling, this smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Alfred F. Jones never talked about Ivan Braginski.

**7.**

"Who are you?"

Out of everyone in the team, Eames was the last person America wanted to have this talk with.

Don't get him wrong; America _liked_ Eames. Eames _exuded_ charm, a man with a good sense of humor and an accent that reminded America of England's sexy one (he refused to elaborate on the last statement). America liked to talk about a lot of things with Eames; about movies and foods and adventures… but not _himself_. Not his identity.

Maybe he could fake it. "What do you mean?"

Eames lighted up his cigarette and scoffed. "You can't fool me, pet, I always know when someone lies to me," he looked into Alfred's eyes, "I fucking lie for a living."

The sky wasn't brightly lit with stars tonight, and America hoped his look of surprise went unnoticed in the darkness. He chewed on his lower lip and forced a smile. "I'm not lying to you at all, Eames. I really am a Twi-hard."

He laughed, loudly; but his gaze stayed on America. "You know I'm not talking about _that_. But I can tell that you're keeping something from us," he exhaled, and the smoke swirled in the air around them.

America sighed. "If you insist," he stood up and made his way back into the warehouse, leaving Eames out in the open, "here's an answer to your question, Mr. Eames: I'm a liar."

**4.**

From his information so far, Arthur concluded that the Mark was… normal. _Too normal_, in fact.

Ivan Braginski was a Russian ambassador in the US who started working three months ago. He held no special position, worked daily from nine to five and lived on the corner of the street, two blocks away from the embassy. It was particularly easy to search his background too; the man was single, his parents had died in a car accident when he was nine, and he had two sisters, one resided in Belarus and one in Ukraine (both countries who were part of New USSR, Arthur noted). The only odd thing about him was the fact that he could be an ambassador in such a young age, but Arthur had seen too many child prodigies to be bothered by this.

Not to mention Arthur entered the dreamshare community himself at the tender age of 18.

But the fact that everything was so simple alarmed Arthur. Ariadne _did_ have a point; what made him so special? What made him different from any other Russians?

It was only natural for Arthur to conclude that Braginski might be a spy.

He remembered reading about the arrest of a Russian spy, and considering the heightened tensions between his country and Russia, Arthur had to open his mind about such possibility. It made perfect sense for Braginski to be a spy, maybe the head or something.

Now that he thinks about it, it would've been much easier if Ivan Braginski had_ actually _been a spy.

**7.**

"Who are you?"

They were in the first level of the dream exploring the level in details, something Cobb had not been able to do in a long time, he'd said. Cobb started telling him about the story of his wife, his other half, and America gave the worst response possible—a steady, truthful, "I know."

Cobb asked him the question.

America looked into Cobb's eyes. This man was a man who'd gone so much in his life. He'd understood pain, and loss, and suffering; he'd lost one of the most important person in his life and stayed alive for the other two; and _mostly,_ he would spot any lies coming from anyone.

So America looked away, into a distance, across the streets where streams of red and white lights blur across like one continuous line, and he thought of two pairs of lovers—

Of two people, who smiled to each other as if they were the only ones in the world, hand in hand with one another as they walked through the same streets for the millionth time, sharing an old scarf and body heat and laughter—

And of two people, who smiled to each other _even though_ they were the only ones in the world, in _their _world, hand in hand with one another as they walked through the Paris street built from memories, sharing body heat and laughter and—

The two couples didn't look much different, he decided.

"Who are you, Alfred?" Cobb repeated.

America gave him a lopsided grin, wishing the image of a certain Russian would quickly disappear. "A lover."

**5.**

_**Ivan Braginski  
Russian Federation**_

_Dominic Cobb,_

_It has come into my knowledge that your team—consisting of yourself, Arthur Bishop, Daniel Eames, Mohammad Yusuf and Ariadne Villeneuve—has successfully performed an inception on Robert Fischer Jr., the head of the now dissolved Fisher-Morrow Corporations, at the request of Saito, the leading man of the now domineering Proclus Global._

_Considering that not only you were up against a high-profile man with impressive security, but also that 'inception' was practically unheard of, it is safe to say that I believe in your team's professionalism and skills._

_Thus, with this letter, I request your team's service. A simple extraction, if I may so myself, on one person:_

_Alfred F. Jones._

_I need you to perform an extraction to acquire one crucial piece of information: whether the country he represents, the United States of America, has any access to weapon of mass destruction._

_Name me your price._

_I expect to see you on the last day of June at the address given above._

**(5.)**

(Or, in other words, Ivan Braginski's letter arrived.

And then, there was one hell of a job.)

**6.**

Cobb told the team about the letter.

**7.**

"_Who. Are. You_?!"

Cobb half-shouted the phrase as he slammed the door open, and the rest of the team followed suit. Arthur was the last one to get in, and he narrowed his eyes at the teenager.

Alfred looked up from the book he'd been reading for the past two days. The book was a large, thick economics book that contained more market jargons than Arthur would prefer. And maybe Arthur should've known long time ago from these little hints—hints that screamed Alfred's personality, Alfred's quirks, Alfred's _**difference**__ from normal people._

Alfred's smile faltered as he looked at Cobb's expression.

He put his book down, "I don't think I understand what's going on—"

"Don't _ever _think of fooling me," Cobb hissed as he slammed his hand on the table beside Alfred, "I don't know who you are, _what_ you are, but I'm not risking me and my teammates' lives for someone that who keep lying to us. I've talked about this with the rest, and we decided we wouldn't risk the job, knowing that you're still hiding something from us."

Alfred's eyes widened in surprise. "I—" he tried, then wavered, and looked away uneasily.

"I know you're older than you look, kiddo," Eames quipped.

Yusuf nodded, "after the whole inception thing happening to us, you wouldn't think that we haven't heard this thing called 'limbo', would you?"

Arthur could see Alfred shrink into his chair. "I…" he tried again, then looking at Arthur, as if there was a possibility of him escaping through the door behind Arthur's back. At this, Arthur gripped the door handle and stood defensively.

"Do you think we're stupid, Alfred?" Cobb barked, "do you think you could fool us?"

Alfred visibly gulped and looked at nowhere in particular, seemingly conflicted about something.

There was silence.

Ariadne was the first one to speak up, walking slowly towards Alfred. "The thing is, you _don't_ have to lie to us, Al," she smiled encouragingly, "we're your friends."

Alfred's eyes met Arthur's again, and Arthur realized he was searching for something in Arthur's eyes. But what? What kind of answer did he want? Encouragement? Understanding? Anger? What kind of message _should_ he give? Betrayal? Acceptance? Or—

But Alfred's eyes flickered, as if he'd found what he was looking for.

The blonde nodded.

"I have to admit, I… I have been trying not to tell you guys," he started, "not that I don't… trust you or anything, not like that. It's just that…"

He sighed audibly, mustering his courage, and said, "I'm the United States of America."

**9.**

There are only 3 ways "I'm the United States of America" can mean:

One, it's grammatically incorrect, because it should've been "I'm **from **the United States of America."

Two, the speaker is clearly drunk, or on crack, or any of the variations, because it just doesn't make sense at all.

And three…

**10.**

America could see the confusion written all over his companions' face. He wasn't surprised; he didn't expect them to understand him immediately.

_Well, at least they are in the dreamsharing community_, he thought to himself, _explanation shouldn't be too hard._

He turned to the nearest table. There was a PASIV device there, the lid still open from yesterday's use.

"Well, people say, visual explanations stick more than verbal," He pulled one of the tubes from the PASIV and smiled at the team.

"I'll show you guys what I mean."

**-X-**

**2020  
December**

**3.**

Why did he stomp out of the room?

This was a breakup, wasn't it? _So much for the forty-plus years relationship, buddy,_ he thought to himself. America could still remember Russia so vividly—his smile, his warmth, his smell and his laughter—but he had to do this. For himself. For _his people_. It wasn't like he didn't have his reasons anyway.

It was the only sound decision when your boyfriend was creating a hydrogen bomb behind your back, after all.

**-X-**

**a/n**: thank you for reading! (long A/N + explanations ahead!)

**[-] The Long Telegram** and **Sources of Soviet Conduct**—basically, during the start of Cold War (1946 and '47 to be precise), a US advisor called George Kennan sent these two letters to US government. they are long, well-researched documents aiming to explain USSR's seemingly hostile actions towards US/West Europe, but in short it says _USSR IS EVULZ THEY WANT TO RULE THE WORLD BE REALLY AFRAID_. seriously

**[-] Cold War II**—I'm aware that it's unofficially yet widely agreed that the period of 1981-1989 was considered the Second Cold War. let's just say in 2030 they've stopped categorizing the periods of the first Cold War or something. I am not creative I'm sorry

**[-] Grand Design by Russia**—a.k.a the 'evil plan to rule the world' that the US _accused _USSR to have.

**[-] 'Misconceptions of USSR's expansionistic tendency…'—**basically, most Americans during Cold War believed that USSR wanted to expand and rule the world ('expansionistic tendency'). Nowadays it's understood that it's not really true (hence 'misconception'), and it was a vicious cycle: US was paranoid, became violent, made USSR scared, which in turn became violent also, which made US _more _paranoid, and so on. it was a frightening period

**[-]** **The Expansionist Theory, The Great Earthquake of 2012, New USSR**—things I totally made up. no actual ill wishes to china, god, no

the transition from 'jones' to 'alfred' while referring to america in arthur's pov is intentional, to show how he starts to warm up to the nation. (yes, I'm such a sucker for these little details)

SO ENDING THIS SUPER LONG A/N, THANK YOU FOR READING

reviews, alerts, favorites are lovely! especially reviews, 'cause they help me improve the story! :)


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